


Three Blue Stones (The It's Your Honour They Are A-Changing Mash-up)

by redsnake05



Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien, The Silmarillion - Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-08
Updated: 2010-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-09 08:52:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsnake05/pseuds/redsnake05
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erestor wishes for vision, even as he weaves together fragments of the past to build the judgements of the moment and the actions of the future. Elrohir gives him many unexpected things, and Erestor takes a long time to embrace all the changes that are set in train.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Blue Stones (The It's Your Honour They Are A-Changing Mash-up)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kenaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenaz/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Diligence, and Knowledge](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/662) by Kenaz. 



Oftentimes, Erestor wished for the quick lightning of foresight. Its white wash of knowledge was quick, bringing advantage and sorrow alike, but Erestor would gladly have taken the dark with the illumination had he been given the choice. He didn't have any choice in it, though, so he made do with what he had to hand: scholarship, his tongue and a sharp-edged knife, and the patience to practice them all. He had time and determination, and his persistence gave him the keys to the archives of Imladris. Immersing himself in paper and ink, he found something that made sense of what he knew and could do. He touched each scroll with reverence for those who'd taken the time to record. There was minutiae there that added nothing, in itself, but he'd noticed that the slow change of language or custom made some readings uncertain and that random details held the secrets of context.

This, then, was what Erestor knew. It was a gift, if not one as showy as foresight. There were the thousand myriad details that together wove a tapestry of past knowledge. If you were lucky, if your warp and weft were even and you went in with the right pattern in mind, you might come out with a treasure map to follow in today's quandary. There was not one foolproof solution to any quest, or question, merely more and less probable patterns to the answer. It had taken him a long time to learn this, but he was established and he worked hard; this passed for happiness.

Erestor had barely seen the Sons of Elrond as they grew up. They were made for action, not lore, though they grew into their heritage slowly. As they grew older, he heard tell of them more, but the archives were quiet. They found what they needed elsewhere, and were, so hearsay told, not inclined to speech. Erestor watched them sometimes at meals, two so alike and so silent. He wondered what thoughts revolved under their quiet faces, what they hoped and dreamed in the uneasy quiet of this age. Probably, they knew what was coming; the foresight of their blood would run true. Erestor went back to his scrolls in peace.

Even Elrond seldom came down to the archives. They met in the full sun instead, remembering the way they first met when Elrond was merely a child. He'd always had the lightning quickness, and he'd seen in Erestor something that no one yet had valued, despite his years. Erestor had sworn no oaths, but he knew that Elrond was his Lord. In his interests, the precision of Erestor's scholarship was something worthwhile, not a painstaking substitute for inspiration.

If there was one thing Erestor knew, it was change. Change and loss, that was what he saw when he looked back at his life. Still, the sound of footsteps on the stairs of the archive surprised him, but not as much as the sight of one of the Sons of Elrond standing there.

"My father says," he began, "that you have the details that cut the jewels of foresight."

"Maybe," said Erestor. He'd never thought of it that way, but Elrond had long been known to think like a smith when in need of a metaphor in a hurry. Erestor never told anyone of his youthful experiments in smithing. He might be one of the Noldor, but his skill was not in stones and it was best that no one knew he'd ever aspired to it.

"Well, I wish for a particularly brilliant cut for this one, so I hope he has not led me wrong."

"Let's both hope," said Erestor. He leaned back in his chair and looked at the youth in front of him. This Son of Elrond had grown up well, and he wore his scant five hundred years like an unassuming cloak. Erestor imagined that many people underestimated him, Elves and Men both. He would not make that mistake. "But you have the advantage of me here. You have both a vision, and a name, neither of which I yet know."

That got a smile from the solemn youth. "You don't know either yet?" he asked. "I like those who will ask straightly and not guess or wait for knowledge." Erestor also smiled, and waited for him to continue. "Elrohir," the other said, bowing slightly. "And I bring you two disparate gems, a housing of your scholarship to wright for them." He pulled out a scroll and handed it over.

"Take a seat," said Erestor, "Elrohir, blunt Son of Elrond. Let us see what we have here."

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

That wasn't the last visit. Erestor grew accustomed to Elrohir's footfall on the steps. He mapped the way his lips tightened, as if against unwary speech, the way his hands were more callused than ever. He was gone for long periods, seeking Erestor out for quick farewells before reappearing, months or years, sometimes decades later, with shadows in his eyes nearly as deep as the shadows in the aisles of Erestor's archives. When they sat together in the lamplight of the archives, Erestor always pushed aside his grim thoughts of the future, and the possibility that Elrohir might not return one day.

This time, though, the dust of travel still clung to the hem of his cloak and there was a clear trail of muddy prints down the stairs. Erestor put aside his scroll and came to his feet, hands out in welcome. The smile that played around Elrohir's mouth was lighter than usual, more mischievous than Erestor was accustomed to see.

"I feel like some vapid day-faring fool with a trinket," said Elrohir, "but I hear tell that you are a child of the Noldor. Mayhap you will find something more than idle vacationing in my gift."

"You know full well I crossed the sea from Tirion," said Erestor. He wiped his hands quickly, one over the other, lest the blood of the first kinslaying should still linger. "I doubt not that you knew before ever you came down my steps."

"True," said Elrohir. "I like one who will not underestimate me. Here." He held out the package and Erestor took it, folding back the cloth to reveal two blue stones set in a simple silver bar. He looked up at Elrohir.

"You found this for me," he said. Elrohir nodded. Erestor looked back at the stones for a long moment. He looked up to see Elrohir still smiling, but there was more of an edge of uncertainty there now. Elrohir should never be uncertain; of this, Erestor was sure. "I'm honoured," he said. Elrohir bit his lip and glanced up at Erestor from under his lashes. Erestor touched his finger to the edge of the first blue stone and gasped as a vision filled his mind. It showed his desk in disarray, his hands in Elrohir's hair and their lips fused tight, as if they were trying to crawl inside each other. The vision gleamed with passion and life, with the glossy crimson of blood and lips, the dark red of secrecy. Erestor dropped the brooch, looking up at Elrohir and this time seeing the matter clearly.

Erestor's hands shook as the vision slotted into his mind, overturning tidy compartments of possibility, ransacking through almost-forgotten stores of excitement. For a moment, he feared for his mind as the light faded and the rubble settled into messy heaps of disconnected knowledge that would need to be rebuilt and catalogued. He swallowed hard against the mess left in his head, against the awareness of how close Elrohir was.

It wasn't that love was forbidden, but... this love was not the love of the marriage bed and the raising of children. It wasn't the love of craft and the shared work of hands or minds. This was visceral, complicated, hot and passionate. There was nothing in the archives to lay the pattern for this, even if all his carefully constructed details hadn't just been overturned. Erestor swallowed hard as Elrohir moved closer.

"What do you see?" he asked. "I saw nothing, when I touched them."

"I can't," said Erestor. "I cannot tell you." Elrohir looked at him strangely, but said nothing further. Erestor took a deep breath and tried to ignore how close Elrohir was. Now he'd seen it, though, he could barely look away from the stubborn curve of his jaw, the sweetness of his lower lip. His body remembered, much more than his mind, all the blessings of youth and the urges of his blood. He wanted to take what the vision offered and let the consequences go. It wasn't as if he had much honour left, after all. Why shouldn't he spend what he had left with the Son of Elrond, if that was what the future held for him?

The touch of Elrohir's fingers to his hand made Erestor look up sharply. The weight seemed to burn through his skin, and Elrohir's eyes seemed dark, the curve of his lips suddenly knowing. Erestor licked his lips and saw Elrohir's eyes drop to the movement. Erestor wanted to turn his hand over, let his fingers mesh with Elrohir's and lift the combined weight to his mouth. He could press kisses all over that skin, callused from wear and struggle. He wondered how much of this longing was the vision, and how much had always been there. Turning his hand, Erestor bit his lower lip as his palm rested under Elrohir's, teeth digging harder as Elrohir's fingers closed over his. He let his desires win, and let go of his bitten lip and his fears as he kissed Elrohir.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Elrohir's step on the stairs was a frequent music to Erestor's ears; steady and firm it sounded, untroubled, almost. It made a pleasant counterpoint to the hum of his brain and the nagging doubt left by the vision he'd seen. When he'd put his mind back together, the vision would not slot neatly into his racks of scrolls and maps and the fine details of scholarship. Always, peeking through like raggedy copybook pages, was this lust. Whenever Elrohir was gone, Erestor tucked the remembrance of him away in neat bundles, tying up the nights they spent together in the plainest of paper parcels and filing the details to be dwelt on later. Some leaked through, teasing him with images so he was not sure where the vision ended and his memory began; he was not sure how much of his desire was real.

Mostly, though, Erestor worked as he had always done, bent over paper and scrolls and books in the archives. When Elrohir visited, sometimes Erestor noticed him not until he was directly in front of him, cup of tea in his hand, or a scroll, or just himself, from fingertip to fingertip within Erestor's reach. This night, though, he had more burdens than usual. It was chilly in the archives, and no fire could be kindled here. Erestor felt the fire of scholarship, but that was not enough to save him from chilled ears. Elohir handed over a heavy cloak, and trimmed a guttering lamp with competent fingers. Erestor wrapped the cloak around his shoulders and watched. He'd not had the luxury of knowing how deft Elrohir's fingers were in person long enough to have tired of looking at them and imagining them on his own skin.

Elrohir's glance at him was sly, cheeks pink with cold, or maybe with arousal. Erestor couldn't tell, just watched him work, watched the fine tremble of Elrohir's fingers and thought of how they felt on his throat, down his back.

"I will not long disturb you, but I thought if you planned to pass the night here, some amenities were in order," Elrohir said. Erestor couldn't bring himself to speak, watching him turn back to the entrance before he found his voice.

"Elrohir," he said, moving forward as the other man paused and turned. Erestor moved forward, touching first Elrohir's shoulder, then up over the side of his neck, the curve of his jaw, thumb brushing over his cheekbones and down, over his lips. When Elrohir turned his head, Erestor leaned forward, the kiss soft and gentle, as warming as all the care Elrohir had heaped on him.

"You're busy with your books, Scholar of the Noldor," said Elrohir. "Mayhap you are finding the key to the setting of precious jewels. Ravish me on your desk another time." Erestor smiled even as the vision darted into his mind and away again, smiled as Elrohir brought his hand up to splay over his chest, over his heart. "But you may wake me when you're finished."

"Of course," said Erestor. "I like it when you make your wishes plain." He smiled as he said it, even as his mind provided images that he was sure he'd never seen in truth, things he maybe only wished Elrohir would want from him. They were tumbled up like uncut gems with the actual memories of thousands of nights spent together in truth, and Erestor pushed both sorts from his head.

"I like you, Scholar," said Elrohir. Erestor thought of all their time, the hundreds of years of meetings and moments and nights spent in a passion unseemly for them both, best kept hidden. When Elrohir spoke direct and frank, Erestor could forget the second-guessing that plagued him. It was then that the dishonour came back: these were the passions of youth, and Elves preferred not to know about those who sought them outside the marriage bed.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Elrohir was gone again, riding south with Arwen's banner in his hand. Elladan and all of the Dunedain that could be gathered in haste were with him, riding to bring Aragorn the help of his kin. Erestor had watched them go, disappearing into the evening fog with the quiet clatter of hooves and the occasional squeak of a harness. Erestor stood long in the grey before turning back to the house. He had work to do. They all did, with the world grown dark around them and the shadow hanging heavy.

Grave faces were more common than not now and each day brought news of strife and war; sometimes skirmishes and sometimes battle, sometimes senseless hate that made the skin crawl. Even Imladris was not immune, though none threatened her directly. Even here, every day those on the borders reported fighting. Still, the war was on Erestor's mind, and Elrond's; they were often to be found outside on the long, west-facing porch, talking of old wars and new. Erestor kept his knives sharp and by his side, and was diligent with his practice.

Making his way back down the stairs to the archive, Erestor turned the questions Elrond had given him over in his head. There were patterns in the things Elrond asked of him, as always, but Erestor felt tired, sluggish and cold, and he wasn't sure he clearly saw all the connections yet. His mind was occupied with the last kiss Elrohir had pressed to his cheek: the impression lingered, but was cold comfort. Memory, the great gift of the Elves, could not come close to the reality of Elrohir's skin under Erestor's hand, the noises he made, broken and needy, when they lay together.

Erestor's cloak was heavy and he drew it around him more securely as he came down the last step. The clasp was loose and he could feel that it had nearly worked free; Erestor had no time for mending of clothes. He opened the drawer to his desk and shuffled impatiently through the contents. His hand closed over a clasp and he drew it out, barely registering the two blue stones and the simple silver housing of the pin Elrohir had given him before the vision ripped through him.

He saw Elrohir, smiling and graceful, following a Man through a library. Erestor didn't recognise the Man, save that he must be a Man of Gondor. He looked so much like that other one, Boromir, the Son of Denethor, that Erestor must have thought them kin. He did not have long to contemplate it before Elrohir stopped the Man in front of a stack of books. Erestor watched Elrohir smile, watched his hands open up to the Man, heard his voice, distant and cajoling for all that, saying, "We have much in common, second sons and scholars both."

The vision faded, leaving Erestor sick and shaky, mind in turmoil as all his carefully filed thoughts tumbled and tore into unrecognisable chaos. It was just like the last time, when the images hurtled through him and casually took over the careful framework of details and research, illuminating the chaos of the moment with a bright light, washing away to leave him standing in rubble. He discovered that a first vision offered no immunity against the crushing and overturning of all he'd worked hard on, scattering and destroying in an instant. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and straightened, almost expecting the Imladris archives around him to be wrecked also, but he was alone in a cavern of paper and ink. His skin crawled and he'd never felt so isolated from the comfort of facts.

There were no facts that could guard sufficiently against the doubts that now assailed him. As his mind struggled with the relentless weight of his vision, struggling to find order in the rubble, he shivered and touched his cheek, fingertips pressed against the spot of Elrohir's last kiss, chaste and formal as a farewell.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Erestor was not much given to introspection. At least, that's what he had believed before Elrohir gave him the gift of two blue stones and a world of self-doubt to lay alongside his facts and minutiae, his research and reasonings. Until then, he'd believed in what could be coaxed from cold narrative and dead ink. Now, he had the unreliability of another vision to interpret, and he could not find any keys in all his long past that would unlock what he'd seen.

Even while he worked, the vision nagged at him. Although Imladris was not directly assailed, there were skirmishes on the borders, and always the hanging threat of the darkness. Elrond laboured long in thought, the great blue stone of his ring bringing preservation and healing, but not peace. Every time Erestor came to speak with him, he would look at Elrond's hand and look away again, bring back his focus to bear on the next stage of their movements.

"Do you remember when we met?" asked Elrond, one afternoon as Erestor turned to leave after yet another long discussion that had worn down into tiredness.

"I do," said Erestor. "You were but a youth, fierce and proud of your heritage. Like a flame you seemed, or at least the spark of one." Erestor remembered Elrond as young and so fragile, compared to the Elves around him. Even then, though, there had been something about him that called to Erestor.

"I wonder, sometimes," said Elrond, pausing and growing silent for a moment. Erestor waited. "I wonder why Elros chose the Life of Man," he said. "I wonder what he saw, what guided his choice."

"I do not know," said Erestor. He thought of the betrothal of Arwen to Aragorn, perhaps soon King of Gondor and Arnor both, and wondered if the choice his daughter had made was making Elrond think of all the old decisions that had shaped so many lives. Erestor himself had turned the past over in his head lately, struggling to answer his own questions. He understood the impulse.

"We were raised together, in the harsh household of Maedhros, and we were with each other day in and day out, through fighting and struggle and loss. I do not understand his choice."

"Perhaps a vision," said Erestor. "They are deceptive and lead you round in circles like the band on a ring." He thought with bitterness of his own struggles, the difficulty of reconciling the truth from the possibilities.

"They can be," agreed Elrond. "As deceptive as motivation, or as simple as a knife between the ribs. My years grow long, and still I have no answers for this question."

"Why is it in your head now?"

"The world is changing, and I wonder if I made the right choice, when everything around me is crumbling in shadow, and I fade and shrink. Even in the household of Maedhros, I thought there was honour. I see it growing tarnished and old. When I sail West, what will I have save a crown of crumbled leaves and a pretty blue stone with no strength?"

"The world has changed more times than you have seen, Elrond Half-Elven," said Erestor.

"True," said Elrond. "You are older than I."

Erestor thought of the long years of the trees, of the pleasure of knowledge and skill, and the first, hot shame of the kinslaying. He thought of the long years of exile and defeat; flight and retreat, death, loss and pain. What little of his honour had survived the Kinslaying on the wharves of Alaquonde, he'd spent in the last thousand years of quiet dalliance and uneasy love that was not usual for Elves. He could not advise Elrond on honour.

"In the end, nothing survives," said Erestor. "Not painstaking detail nor the power of foresight. They both lie, and you must act as you see best."

"You have no comfort for me today," said Elrond.

"There is no comfort for Elves in this world," said Erestor. "Nor even for those of the Half-Elven."

"None?" asked Elrond. Erestor looked at him, wondering what prompted his words. He did not answer, and Elrond turned away, looking out toward the West. Erestor wondered where his hope came from. He was not sure, himself, of anything but the change he could feel. The tipping point of a New Age approached, inexorable as the sea, and as terrible.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Erestor rode well back in the winding line of Elves and carts and horses, taking his place in the rearguard quietly. They had crossed the Gap of Rohan hours ago, riding South through green fields and wide spaces. Erestor barely remembered how this land used to be shaped; he'd not travelled here in long ages. The very air felt different from how he remembered, though that might have been the lack of dust in it. He'd buried himself in his archive for a long time; almost more than the years he'd spent as a leaf caught in bigger storms. He couldn't push aside the nagging sense, though, that the world was changing. He heard Elrond's last question in his ears everytime he felt the movement. He didn't need to be a seer or comb his archives to feel the truth of the change. He just needed to decide what to do with the feeling.

A shout from the front of the line heralded a stop and the appearance of the escort to bring them in to Gondor. Erestor did not move forward. He wasn't sure he wanted to see Elrohir again, even as just the thought made his breath catch. A snippet of the vision intruded on him, but Erestor pushed it firmly aside. He had no time for the half-promises of visions. He wanted the tangibility of Elrohir's voice and smile; even if the vision was true, he'd not change what he'd chosen. All fates would come to pass or would not; there were no other options under the sky.

Sliding down from his horse, Erestor heard the shout that it was time to stop and make camp in the lengthening sun of the afternoon. He chose a spot distant from the central fire, or even the smaller ones, and rolled out his mat and blanket carefully out of any firelight; even more carefully out of earshot. As the darkness fell, Erestor sat on the edge of his makeshift bed and watched the sky turn purple and then black. Stars would be enough to see truth, if the spirit of Elentari would run true through their constellations. Elrohir's step was muted on the springing grass, but familiar nonetheless.

"You rode not at the front to meet me," said Elrohir.

"Scholars, like archives, tend to be found in forgotten corners," said Erestor. "Did you wish me to greet you under the wide sun with your father watching?"

"How would you have greeted me?" asked Elrohir. Erestor smiled, all his doubts forgotten in the moment between them. He had no need for visions, nor yet for details and archives. Elrohir's voice was unchanged: no shade of a lie there. Whatever Erestor had seen in the vision, it was not the end he feared. The world was changing, though; he could change too. He had done so many times, but this was one that he thought might be more about happiness than about others' needs. There was something both terrifying and liberating in making one's own choices based on a moment of joy.

Standing, Erestor wrapped his fingers round Elrohir's wrist and tugged him closer. "I would meet you with a smile that wished you were naked and a kiss," said Erestor. Elrohir laughed softly, but his fingers shook slightly as he touched Erestor's face.

"And now that I am here?" asked Elrohir. "What welcome do I get now?"

Erestor kissed him, slow at first, languid as the summer night around them. They took time with each other, using their lips and the gentle touch of their tongues and their fingers to tell of their want. Elrohir took a slow breath, letting it shudder out of him on a sigh as they broke apart. His smile, as he tilted his head, was warm and full of all the things Erestor had avoided seeing for so long. Erestor knew his answering smile was full of the things he couldn't say.

"I packed a wide bedroll," said Erestor, "and a large blanket."

"Do you ask me to stay with you?" asked Elrohir. Erestor recognised his doubtful tone. He was done pretending. Days grew short and he had let go of many old things. With the change came new opportunities.

"If you wish," he said. "I would like that."

"We'll have to be quiet," said Elrohir, this time with his voice laced with laughter.

"You, maybe," said Erestor, "but I am a Scholar and used to working quietly."

"I will make you see stars," promised Elrohir. "You will wish you had not boasted."

Erestor laughed and drew Elrohir closer again. This moment made its own tapestry from the muted hues of the starlight and the subtle threads of a long, hidden passion. It was not at all the pattern that Erestor had once envisioned, but he found himself at ease with that. Erestor had once wanted vision and relied on his books to make the pictures of the future for him. But now he had the evidence of his skin and his heart, and that fitted him better than either.


End file.
